horrendous two thousand years. To Cultural Survey AT/I Cedd Farrari, the only member of the staff without a special assignment, it meant only one more work of art to evaluate and classify.
He went to his sleeping room, sprawled on his couch, opened the IPR Field Manual. As he flipped past the capitalized truisms, his mind began to formulate arguments against them. REVOLUTION IS A CONCENTRATED EXCESS OF EVOLUTION? Not to Cedd Farrari. Evolution connotated a prolonged and inevitable natural process; revolution a violent surge of emotion. He suspected that too many of the Bureau’s sacrosanct slogans were based more upon a contrived association of words than a distillation of ideas.
FUNDAMENTAL TO ANY DEMOCRACY IS THE PEOPLE’S RIGHT TO BE WRONG? Perhaps no democracy had survived the abolishment of that principle, but neither could a democracy survive if its people erred consistently.
He was beginning to hate those blocks of leering capitals. What could this presumed wisdom mean to a people doomed to two thousand years of misery? Even that figure was only a Bureau estimate, a guess, and Farrari’s private hunch was that far too many of the Bureau’s guesses were proving overly optimistic. Otherwise its Supreme Headquarters would not have snatched so eagerly at the possibility of Cultural Survey miracles.
He slammed the manual to the floor and went for a walk. Many of the workrooms were empty, but the crowded conference rooms reverberated with talk and argument. Farrari strode past them scowling. He circled back toward his own rooms and saw Jan Prochnow still seated by the dais in the dining room. He had obtained another teloid of the tapestry, and he was staring into the projection, head tilted back, eyes narrowed, lips pursed in fierce concentration.
Farrari paused. “Is there any significance to the fact that this tapestry is covering the large relief of the kru above the main entrance?” he called.
Prochnow started, scowled resentfully at Farrari, and then turned to study the projection. “It may be the handiest place to hang the thing,” he said. “On the other hand, that relief is the one our agents call the ‘moving picture’ because it’s changed periodically. Mmm— interesting question.”
“The kru’s most recent portrait is always on display there,” Farrari persisted. “What’s the chance that they took it down when the kru died, and the tapestry is covering the blank space until his successor is crowned?”
“Interesting thought,” Prochnow mused. He scrambled to his feet. “I’ll see what I can find out.”
Farrari looked in on Heber Clough and found him poised intently over a genealogical chart. Farrari said accusingly, “Don’t tell me you’re still trying to guess the next kru!”
Clough regarded him irritably.
“Why don’t you just relax and wait a day or two?” Farrari asked. “For that matter, why all the conferences? Why not just observe and then compare notes afterward?”
“A succession of power is the most critical operation in any government,” Clough said. “Some manage the change easily, some always become embroiled in revolution or power struggle, and with others it’s unpredictable. We have to plan our observations carefully, so as not to overlook anything, because it’s often the best time to bring about a change of direction. In some societies it’s the only time. Now go away and let me work. The kru had nineteen sons, but we don’t know how many are still living or who the survivors might be. It’s a pretty problem—a pretty problem.”
Farrari departed disgustedly, had his dinner in his quarters, and went to bed. He was a long time falling asleep, but he awoke suddenly with a firm hand shaking him. Against the subdued ceiling glow he made out the shadowy figure of a man bent over him. Peter Jorrul’s voice said, “I’m taking you to Scorv. How much time do you need to get your kit together?”
Farrari sat up and muttered sleepily, “What’s that?”
“Get ready as quickly as you can. We’re waiting for you—meet me at the hangar.” He hurried away.
Farrari splashed water into his face and shook himself awake. He doubted that he’d heard Jorrul correctly, but he pulled on clothing and hurried to the hangar.
Workmen were packing supplies onto a large flying platform. Jorrul stood nearby, talking with Isa Graan. He wore native dress similar to what he’d worn on the night of Farrari’s arrival, and he carried a heavy cloak over his arm.
He glanced at Farrari and scowled. “Where’s your kit?”
“Kit?” Farrari echoed bewilderedly.
“Equipment. Tools. Whatever CS people work with.”
Graan chuckled. “He carries all of it in his head. CS people don’t work with things. They work on things.”
Jorrul stalked away. Graan said, “You’re the first specialist he’s ever taken into the field who didn’t insist on lugging half the base with him.” He studied Farrari critically. “You’ll need a cloak.”
“He didn’t tell me how long I’ll be gone. Should I take a change of clothing?”
Graan shook his head. “They’ll give you a complete outfit when you arrive. Native dress, whatever they want you to wear. But if you don’t dress warmly on that platform, you’ll freeze.” He went to a supply room and returned with a padded cloak for Farrari. As an afterthought he tossed him a blanket.
Twenty minutes later Farrari was glad to have both. Graan had installed a weather shield, but even with that protection the high mountain valleys were bitterly cold. They soared between lofty, snow-covered peaks, Jorrul handling the controls intently and Farrari huddling on a crate and pondering the power of this man. The night of Farrari’s arrival he had restricted him to base. Permanently.
Now, with a crook of his finger, he had transferred Farrari to the field team. The coordinator must have known and approved, but the procedure still seemed alarmingly informal if not irregular. Farrari didn’t object to the informality, but he resented the fact that no one had bothered to tell him what it was he was expected to do.
Jorrul turned and raised his infravisor. “Know your Scorvif geography?”
“Vaguely,” Farrari answered.
Jorrul lowered the visor with a snort of disgust. Chagrined, Farrari began to search his memory. The land of Scorvif lay amid its mountain surroundings like an elongated, six-fingered hand. At the high altitude of the fingertips the summers were cool, the winters snow-choked and frigid; but the elevation fell sharply, and through most of their lengths the broad finger valleys enjoyed mild summers and suffered cool, wet winters. The palm, being at the lowest level and nearest the equator, had mild winters and uncomfortably hot summers. Each finger funneled its streams into the land’s one river that snaked across the palm, looping around the flat hill upon which stood Scorv, the land’s only large city. In the spring the river was a thundering torrent that overflowed its banks and frequently gouged out a new course for itself. Sometimes it passed to the east of Scorv, sometimes to the west, and in especially wet springs the city stood on an island. At the land’s southern boundaries the mountains closed in on the river, narrowing and deepening it and finally tumbling it through a series of impassable cascades into a granite-lined crevass.
That much Farrari knew, but as he squinted at the dim, snow-covered slopes he was humiliated to find that he had no idea where he was. The best route for a lumbering supply platform would not be the shortest, but the one that got the platform to its destination with the least possible chance of detection.
